


I'm Sorry I Broke You

by Pine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pine/pseuds/Pine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though Sherlock's gone away, he could still see what John and the others were going through. And he never thought that by saving them, somehow, he was killing them too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry I Broke You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlemisshamish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemisshamish/gifts).



> To the Deity, to Fish, and to Penguin.
> 
> Based on the song "Briane" by Boyce Avenue.

It was difficult when grief threatened to fill every thought.  
  
He looked at John’s seat; Sherlock asked himself if he’d gone insane. He saw John, who simply sat there and types away, like he always did out of habit. He then glanced at the kitchen, where he saw Mrs. Hudson trying to make sense of what experiment he left there.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, and the illusions disappeared. This wishful thinking brought him no comfort. It wasn’t the time.  
  
“Sherlock.” A warning.  
  
What semblance he had of composure almost crumbled and became a lie.  
  
“You know she will be back soon.” A voice informed him. Mycroft.  
  
“I know.” Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. An act. He reminded himself.  
  
“I have what I need.” He said to his brother as he forced himself to turn around and exit the flat. He silently hurried down the familiar stairs, with Mycroft right behind him. It was starting to become difficult. He knew he had to keep his appearance up for a few minutes longer. He could do it. He had no choice.  
  
It would be difficult if the plans failed to push through.  
  
A few minutes after, they could hear sirens nearing their direction. To familiar alleyways and quiet streets, they made their way to safety.  
  
Eyewitnesses reported that two men entered the flat and wreaked havoc. At first glance, nothing seemed to have been taken, but with the damage they left, they seemed to have been looking for something. The landlady said many things were scattered on the floor and some china were broken. Boxes that contained science equipment were overturned. Piles and piles of papers shredded. Mirrors broken.  
  
The police would start investigation, said the media. There was nothing to investigate, the police claimed. Probably vengeance for what the late fraud Sherlock Holmes did, the public assumed.  
  
That was the last straw. After two weeks of Sherlock’s death, the incident forced John to go back.  
  
“This is insane.” John whispered as he entered the flat for the first time since the consulting detective’s death, only to be greeted by the sight of the damage that had been done. He tried to continue standing, holding himself up against the door frame.  
  
This was salt, unmerciful and unforgiving, rubbed against a fresh wound. He blinked a few times, thinking the chaotic sight would go away.  
  
It didn’t.  
  
He stepped in and approached the piles of paper, shredded and scattered on the floor. He picked up the ones with the colored ink and recognized it immediately. John turned the pieces around and looked at the other side as he went to the table. He could remember it was from one of the cases that they worked on, one of their earlier cases. They had to disguise themselves just to be able to solve the crime. The pieces were a reminder of that.  
  
He cleared the table, letting the other documents on top of it fall off. He put the pieces together, revealing a familiar image. Surely, it was not one of his most flattering ones, he once thought, but...  
  
Imagine, Sherlock Holmes, a ninja.  
  
John almost smiled at the memory. It was one of the better times.  
  
And it was now reduced to almost unrecognizable strips of paper.  
  
It took him a few minutes before he realized how tightly his fists were clenched. It hurt and it felt good. Better than... better than whatever feelings he had to temporarily suppress (or forget).  
  
He looked up, only to be met with the sight of the painted smiley face on the wall. He could still see the bullet holes in it. If only he had a gun with him, he would shoot that face down. There was no point in adding to the chaos though.  
  
He looked around. It was a mess.  
  
It was not fair.  
  
“It’s going to be okay.” He suddenly heard a voice.  
  
 _Sherlock_ , his ears told as he turned to the door.  
  
“Molly.” His eyes showed.  
  
They just stood in place, and observed each other. No one willing to move. Both unsure.  
  
John tried to keep his composure, but something in his expression must have betrayed him. She walked up to him, careful not to step on anything, and wrapped him in a warm embrace. He just stood still and did not return the hug. He was tired. He figured she would understand.  
  
She hugged him tighter, “It’s going to be okay.”

 

*

  
It was late when Molly went back home. A long-stemmed peach rose was on the porch. She stepped over it and left it outside. She still felt upset. She entered the flat and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. Satisfied, she was removing her coat when her cellphone vibrated in her pocket.  
  
A message.  
  
 **Thank you. - SH**  
  
It was the first text she received from him, and somehow she knew it would be the last. He wasn’t supposed to be alive after all.  
  
He didn’t have to send her a message. It was something she knew she had to do. But it didn’t matter. It had been a long night. It was tiring, trying to keep up appearances. She left her bag and phone on the kitchen table and made a cup of coffee for herself.  
  
Black, two sugars.  
  
She took a seat and placed the coffee next to her phone. The message was still open and she read it again. She thought about replying though she didn’t have to. She knew that Sherlock would know what she would say anyway. He knew many things after all. But sometimes, she would wonder if he truly understood what was most important.  
  
She heard her phone vibrate against the wooden table. Another message.  
  
 **I’m sorry, Molly.**  
  
She took a sip of coffee. After a few seconds, it vibrated against the palm of her hand.  
  
 **And thank you. - John**  
  
She shook her head and took another sip and her lips formed a sad smile. She didn’t know how she could forget. Of course Sherlock knew. She would not feel so conflicted if he didn’t.  
  
Feeling better, she stood up and returned to her main door. She opened it and saw the rose had not been moved. It was not fair. It was painful. She knew it was from Sherlock. She knew Sherlock was alive but she couldn’t tell the doctor or anyone else.  
  
She picked the rose up and felt the thorns prick her fingers. It did not matter. The thorns eased the pain.  
  
“He looks so sad,” she spoke out loud to the quiet night, “when he thinks he can never see you again.”  
  
Until the act was over, she would make sure John would pull through. It was the right thing to do.  
  
She promised.

 

*

  
The room was small and furniture was sparse. There were two cushioned seats. Everything else, bare necessities.  
  
Small space or not, he could feel Sherlock’s anxiety. The detective wanted to move. The next actions needed waiting. He knew that Sherlock knew how to wait. It was one of the basic skills involved in his job. Searching, planning, waiting, moving.  
  
And today... Today, they waited. It seemed that Sherlock was not particularly patient.  
  
Mycroft looked at the table and saw a white rose. He knew it was the fifth one given, but it was the first one Sherlock brought back with him.  
  
“It’s never an advantage.” Mycroft started as he walked to the seat beside Sherlock’s.  
  
“I told you once.” He continued. _I am sure you remember._ He left it unsaid.  
  
“I will do this.” Sherlock answered. Mycroft observed his younger brother then placed his attention on something else, on the window that the younger one was looking at. The view was empty and gray. He could see the detective trying to keep his feelings in check. “An interesting choice of words, Sherlock.”  
  
The silence lingered for a while, and then, “There is no alternative to this, Mycroft.”  
  
“There was.”

“Was there?”

“Yes.”  
  
Back to silence again.

“I have to protect them. They’re in danger.” Sherlock stood up from his seat. “I have to move.”

“No.” Mycroft objected with a little more force than he intended, as he stood up as well, mirroring Sherlock’s stance and grabbing him by the arm.  
  
“No. You don’t have to.” If his grip became tighter, Mycroft did not care, “For once, let me help you.”

 

*

  
Sherlock found himself watching the camera feed recordings.  
  
It had been routine, every day for the past week since John returned to Baker Street.  
  
To a certain extent, he supposed, he knew that John would be affected by this. He just did not expect the doctor to seem so... empty. Daily chores done without thinking; feigned smiles, acting of social niceties, except for when Mrs. Hudson would meet him. Even with the grainy shots of what video feeds were provided to him, he could see the differences. They were glaring and he could not ignore them, no matter how much he tried.  
  
But Sherlock could not bring himself to regret his actions. They were necessary, but still... There was nothing he could do.  
  
They were alive... John was alive... so far. That was all that mattered.  
  
One recording after the other, Sherlock checked. Everything seemed to be in place, until he noticed that something was different in one footage.  
  
A shadow.  
  
His mind worked quickly to connect the pieces.  
  
A hand moved quickly to retrieve his phone from his pocket. Fingers pressed a few buttons. Sherlock waited for the call to connect.  
  
After a ring, “Yes?”  
  
“Someone’s on the move.” He said as clearly as possible, urgency in his tone. He then ended the call, not waiting for any reply.  
  
Mycroft was in a meeting. He politely excused himself and went to a relatively private corner. He couldn’t go personally, of course. But this was something he could not leave to just anyone.

 

*

  
There was no time for pleasantries. He knew there was no one in the building that day. Calmly, but quickly, he opened the main door with his copied key and dashed up the stairs. He hoped to reach the doctor in time.  
  
Lestrade was rarely late simply because he knew that every second that he missed would mean consequences, often, for the worse. Time was important.  
  
His hands moved quickly to get his phone as he opened the door to Sherlock’s flat. Fingers dialled a familiar string of numbers as one hand turned the knob.  
  
“John?”  
  
He waited for a few seconds. The lack of response made Lestrade realize he was too late.  
  
He went in the rooms, just in case. After a few rings, the call was picked-up. “Gregory?”  
  
“Mycroft, he’s not here.”

 

*

  
“Sherlock...”  
  
He touched the gravestone again. “I...”  
  
His expression closed off again. For now, it was better this way. Back to the soldier that he was. “Everything will be better.” He stepped away. This was not the time. There were more important things that he had to do.  
  
He bent down and left the white rose on the ground. The last one that would be left. He was not one to believe in superstition and he knew that Sherlock wasn’t as well. But was there any harm in trying to grieve? For two weeks after Sherlock’s death, he left to avoid the pain.  
  
When the flat was ransacked, he had to choice but to go back. Upon his return, it was only right that he grieved properly.  
  
He heard once that some prayed for nine days. But what was the point? He couldn’t bring himself to pray. He knew others left food, some left flowers.  
  
He looked down on the rose.  
  
He wanted to believe he was easing his pain.  
  
Voice in a whisper, John promised to himself, “I’ll clear your name.” _I’ll bring you back._ He was about to turn around and walk away, when he felt his phone vibrate against his jacket pocket.  
  
Unknown number.  
  
John knew better than to answer the call. It was not unusual, seeing unknown numbers flash on the screen. But it could be someone asking for help , he tried to convince himself. Conscience won and he answered the phone, “Hello?”  
  
“They said he was a fake.” John froze in place. It was said in a calm tone.  
  
It took John a few seconds before he could form a proper reply, “He isn’t.”  
  
“I believe, Dr. Watson.” The voice on the other line said. John looked around, trying to see if there was anyone near.  
  
“He could never be fake,” The voice continued. “For you see,”  
  
A gunshot rang through the air.  
  
A familiar, searing pain shot through his shoulder. He looked to his side. His shirt started to cling to his body, slowly soaking wet.  
  
“Moriarty was real too.”  
  
Another gunshot forced him to fall down in pain.  
  
The phone fell from his hand. He tried to keep his eyes open.  
  
He thought he heard Sherlock shouting his name.  
  
The white rose turned red. It would have been the ninth today.

 

 

*

  
The detective stood at the same place from where he first saw Mrs. Hudson and John pay respects at his false grave. From there, he could see everything that mattered. Or so he thought.  
  
He felt someone stand a respectable distance behind him.  
  
“I have some leads.” Sherlock heard, but made no reply. “I won’t let anyone else get hurt.” Sherlock let his silence continue. He gripped his cellphone tighter. He was still upset. Visibly upset. After a few seconds, his expression closed off.  
  
Mycroft held the handle of his umbrella tighter. He was well-versed in the art of manners and socially acceptable behavior; it was part of his job. It was not how he usually handled such situations, it was true. But this was new. Never had he seen Sherlock so true to his role, so dead.  
  
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but it took him a few beats before he said the words to convey the truth he wanted to say.  
  
“Despite what you might think my dear brother, I do care for you.”  
  
Sherlock’s head turned and met his eyes. Anger, despair... Sherlock’s eyes betrayed for a second, only to be replaced with a cool gaze, which he returned to the blood-soaked rose on the ground. Mycroft simply looked at his younger brother and hoped the other would see his sincerity.  
  
“I’ll keep them safe, Sherlock.” _I’m sorry._  
  
Sherlock looked at him with an inscrutable expression, then looked away. Shoulders less tense, forehead less creased.  
  
“I know.” _I’m sorry too._  
 

 

*

  
He sat behind his own gravestone, clutching the rose that John left at the grave. The ninth one. He touched the petals, blood crusting over them, giving them a different shade.  
  
An act. He reminded himself, pricking his fingers with the thorns. He had to continue it. He had no choice.  
  
He never had felt so helpless. Never had he felt this put-on act to be so true.  
  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
  
John would be better and that was all that mattered. The doctor was not weak and Sherlock knew it.  
  
Sherlock was not sure if he himself would fare any better.  
  
He stood up and wiped the dirt from his pants. He turned around, just in time to see a glimpse of John’s back. An illusion he wished to be true. Right now, John was in the hospital, trusting Mycroft’s words to be true.  
  
“I’ll burn the web.”  
  
He looked down and closed his eyes. “I’ll make things right.”  
  
 _'Friends protect people.'_  He remembered. His resolution hardened.  
  
He stabbed the rose on the ground. In a few days it would wilt. A few more, it would be gone. But it did not matter. It has served its purpose. He trusted his brother. John will be okay.  
  
“I will come back, John.”  
  
 _Goodbye._

 


End file.
